


I Hate to Have to Part

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Humor, Leather, Lies, Vegetarians & Vegans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever HYDRA and the Red Room must work together, shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hate to Have to Part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritingCyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/gifts).



Nikita takes patrol with the American rookie. Murphy, he called himself. On his way out of the plane this afternoon, he had hit his head on the side of doorframe while walking. Their pilot, Rumlow had said. Nikita is not sure how such a man could become an agent of HYDRA. Truly, America must be a land where dreams come true.

Murphy puts as much space as possible between them as they make their rounds on the narrow walkways. He won’t make eye contact.

Nikita smiles. “Not comfortable brushing elbows with a Soviet, _myshka_?”

“What?” Murphy starts, flushing. “I—no—Mister—Commander—Isayev. No! It’s not like—I know what it’s like to have people judge your nationality, your heritage, I—I wouldn’t—”

“I believe you,” Nikita interrupts, before the man can hyperventilate. “Then what ails you, my friend?”

“Nothing.” Murphy looks away. “It’s—it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Nikita looks over Murphy to start and then himself. His leather duster, black and heavy, sways with his steps. Thinking back to this evening’s dinner, Nikita recalls how Murphy avoided the pirzohki and picked around the meat in the soup, eating mostly just the rye bread. “The coat troubles you, yes?”

Cringing, Murphy’s rambling picks back up. “I—I’m sorry—your choices aren’t my business, it’s my own personal hang up and I shouldn’t judge you for—”

“Take a breath, _myshka_.” Shaking his head, Nikita can’t help but smile. “I understand. It is an admirable trait, _da_? To have as much compassion for all creatures as you have for your fellow man.”

“I—thank you,” says Murphy, flushed again.

“May I tell you the story of how I received this coat, my friend? It may set your mind at ease.”

Murphy looks dubious, but eventually he gives a small nod.

“I was not raised in the Red Room, you see. My father was a farmer. I always thought I would be one as well. But in my youth, our crops began to fail. The soil was overworked, and no matter what we planted, it could not be revived. We were in poverty, and often went without food.

“We did have a single cow, a milk cow. A gift to my parents to celebrate my birth, as I was the eldest. Growing up, that cow was more than a pet. She was family. Sometimes her milk was all we had in a day. And sometimes, when the food was scarce and the winters especially cold, I would sneak her parts of my meals.”

“What was her name?” Murphy asks, rapt.

“Lyuba. To this day, I consider her my dearest friend. But when I was twenty, she died of old age.” Nikita pauses, wiping the back of a hand across his eyes. “I was about to leave home, you see, find a profession that gave hope of a future. I’ve always blamed myself. Lyuba knew I would go, and the strain of it...” He shakes his head. “I was distraught. And my father, as a gift for me, made this leather the old way—all vegetable and no chemicals—so I could have my home, my friend, with me wherever I went.”

Murphy is tearing up.

“Do not be sad, _myshka_.” Grinning, Nikita slaps his shoulder. “This is a happy story.”

“It’s beautiful,” Murphy mutters.

“Here, get your rest. The time difference must be trying on you, _da_? I can finish the patrol.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I insist.” Nikita nudges him back a bit. “Your team are guests. We must be hospitable.”

After a few more half-hearted protests, Murphy trudges back to bed. Whistling to himself, Nikita carries on his way.

When he reaches the southeast corner, Rumlow, Rollins, and Markin are gathered there, cigarettes glowing red in their hands.

“Nikitos,” says Markin.

“Stepa,” he replies, then looks to the Americans. “Enjoying your stay so far?”

“My balls are gonna freeze off,” Rumlow says. “Nice coat.”

“Thank you.” Nikita digs through his pocket, pulling out a pack of his own cigarettes.

“Where’d you get it?” asks Rollins.

Nikita shrugs. “Salvaged from a previous mission. Took forever to clean off the former owner’s blood, but it was worth it in the end. Anyone have a light?”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from ["I Guess This is Goodbye"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5PBedgrmI4) from the musical _Into the Woods._
> 
> Translations for the Russian are as follows:  
>  _myshka_ : little mouse  
>  _da_ : yes
> 
> Murphy is American, but people tend to assume he's a Mexican immigrant when they look at him. This is what he means about knowing what it's like to be judged by nationality.


End file.
